


Feed’st thy light’s flame

by Vampiric_Charms



Series: Burns Most of All [34]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-08-27 10:45:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8398561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vampiric_Charms/pseuds/Vampiric_Charms
Summary: Melkor’s perfectly constructed world shatters just outside his reach and, for the first time, Mairon is not there to pick up the mess or put the pieces back together.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is set very soon after Beren and Lúthien steal the Silmaril from Melkor, and takes place while Sauron is recovering in Taur-nu-Fuin. It may not be _perfectly_ accurate, but I’m all right with that and still want to share with you all. Rated for...Melkor being Melkor, really.
> 
> As always, thank you to Naamah_Beherit for your eyes and your assistance with this one.
> 
> Enjoy!

Swirling darkness encompassed him, closing around his limbs and torso and clogging into his throat without cessation. There was no light, there was no air, no wind. No stars, no sun, no moon. He thrashed, striking out with an arm that hit only ancient, dark nothingness.

There, then, a small flame far in the distance, pulsing, calling, crying to him to wake, to come forward from this, and then -

Shrill laughter, cold and cruel seeping into his very being, and brightness not of flame, but of stone. The flame was _gone_ , replaced by this chill, this thing of such bitter, beautiful light. The light was his own, and he lifted his arm again from its shroud of darkness toward it, heedless of the burning, of the flesh falling away from his bone.

Melkor woke - minutes, hours, days, centuries - later to a room smelling of stale smoke and ash that had been sitting unstirred for far too long. He blinked wearily and rolled to his side, flinging an arm out for the warm body that was so continually there, but the other side of the bed was cold and empty. Unless he counted the canvas and silk curtains, of course, pulled down from their hangings because the far left poster at the foot of the bed was broken neatly in two. The curtains had collapsed on top of him. He shoved those out of his way with an angry hiss and hefted his heavy, tiresome body into a seat at the edge of the mattress.

His chambers were icy and dark. The fire had long since gone out - he had no concept of when that may have occurred, time escaped him like water flowing through fingers stretched too wide - and the sky beyond his high arched windows was black and starless, the moon not visible to cast its silvery light across the land or his belongings.

He glanced around, taking in the items thrown about and the various furniture broken with rage and, finally, his glowing iron crown just there near his feet by the bed. It was dented, his own doing, and, he recalled with a furious swoop in his in his chest, missing one of his perfect, glorious gems. Fierce, gripping illness snared at his stomach, and he snarled into the empty room.

“Mairon!” he called out into the stillness, snatching the crown from the floor and rising to his feet.

There was no response to his summons and he quickly, carelessly, threw out a brief surge of energy into the hall and surrounding rooms to canvas for the Maia’s spirit. Perhaps he had simply not heard his master, desiring his presence to fix this wretched mess, just as Mairon _always_ fixed these messes. But he did not feel that resounding spark there, always nearby, and he frowned as he began to amble to the door. The lower chambers, then, or the forge. He would come. He would.

Memories fell back into place the longer he remained awake, terrible, vicious memories, and he clutched the crown tightly into his hand until the iron left divots in the flesh of his palm. Wordlessly, he placed the crown back on his head and tugged the door open to step into the hall.

“ _Mairon_!” he called again, louder this time, and his voice boomed off the stone walls.

He waited this time, seconds passing into minutes as he stood in the doorway with growing uncertainty. Sauron did not arrive, though his yell must have been heard through most of the fortress. Melkor glowered as he thought, not yet truly concerned. His faithful lieutenant must be on the grounds, of course. Where else could he be, really? He would send a servant to fetch him.

Suddenly there was movement at the end of the hall, two orcs scuttling into view around a corner. They caught sight of Melkor hovering in the doorway of his chambers and paused in their route, wherever they had been headed, and quickly bowed submissively to him.

“We heard our master call,” one of them said, raising his head slightly to watch Melkor’s face for any sign to flee. He elbowed his companion in the ribs.

“Yes,” the other quickly agreed. “Yes, we came as soon as we heard you call. May we assist you, Master?”

Melkor walked toward them, already feeling a bit lighter on his feet. The illness gripping at his stomach would ease as soon as Mairon came to him, as soon as his dear Maia was able to offer a solution to this damnable mess - and these two would bring him here. All would soon be well. He grinned and the orcs shuffled on their knees, not used to seeing such an expression bestowed upon them.

“Bring me Lieutenant Sauron,” he demanded loftily, already turning away. “Have him sent to my private study.” His bedroom, after all, was rather a disaster just then. Another problem for Mairon to solve, just as he always did.

There was a hasty whispering at his back and he turned swiftly to see the two orcs murmuring to one another with their heads together, a very obvious look of concern on their faces. “Is there a problem?” he asked, voice soft. “Surely this task is not too great for you to accomplish for me.”

The orcs must have sensed the danger in that question because they immediately shook their heads, though they did look at one another again. One of them cleared his throat with a nasty cough and lowered his eyes in a most demure way. “Lieutenant Sauron…” he began and did not finish his thought. 

It was taken up by his companion, who lowered himself so close to the ground in a show of humility his forehead nearly touched the stone. “Lieutenant Sauron is not here, my lord. May - may we be of assistance to you in his stead?”

It spilled out in a rush of words, but Melkor heard them all just the same. He bent low and caught the unsuspecting orc by the throat, lifting him from his crouching bow against the flagstones until his feet dangled from the floor so they were eye to eye. His friend did nothing to intervene as he looked on in fear.

“Where, pray tell,” Melkor purred menacingly, “ _is he_?” 

Thoughts of defection and betrayal, of Mairon rushing back to Aulë with false tears in those molten-flame eyes, or of throwing himself upon the foot of Manwë’s great throne, invaded his thoughts without mercy. He’d done it once, defected, when he came to join Melkor. What would ever stop him from doing it again? All the pretty words he whispered into Melkor’s ears, of adoration and devotion, of worship and so much affection, of _love_ , now boiling in his memory - had they meant _nothing_?

But then something broke through the furious spiral of his mind, a sputtering, gasping sound. The orc was trying to speak, and he eased the grasp on that fragile windpipe just enough for him to do so, enough for him to give the vile story of Sauron’s debauched treachery.

“He - ” A sharp gasp for breath that almost made Melkor close his grasp again out of spite, but the orc somehow kept talking when his companion remained silent with terror. “He went after the - the shiny stone and - and the elf lady. For you.”

This gave Melkor pause, and he stared at them both, the two orcs, as he was once again assailed by his lack of perception and lost time. “When!” he barked sharply.

“Long time,” the orc in his fist, tightening again, gasped out.

“And he hasn’t _returned_?”

A shake of the mangey head and Melkor’s grasp tightened a fraction more with rage limned by sickening fear. The orc gagged. “Why was I not made _aware_ of this!”

Emotion of various and savage sorts bubbled poisonously in his chest, and he squeezed until there was a sharp pop, the vertebrae of the orc’s neck snapping under the pressure of his closing fingers. He dropped the lifeless body with a detached anger, the other orc jumping as it landed beside him. Melkor did not pay them any mind now, turning his focus inward with a rush to find that bright, golden cord that had been there for so long now. 

It glittered before him, bright as flame as it was brought to the forefront, and he tugged it hard. There was no responding pull from the other end. _Mairon_ , he called wordlessly down that connection. No response came. _You will answer me! You will answer your lord!_

But still, no response came back along the connection. 

Melkor sent a line of fierce energy along the cord, following it, and saw that it did not lead toward Valinor, of course it didn’t, and he felt disgusted with himself for even imagining such a thing. It led...elsewhere, and before reaching whatever destination Mairon had found himself at, it vanished, like a thread cut too soon or an artery left to bleed dry from a limb severed off the body, no longer attached to its heart. He was simply _not there_.

Melkor spun to the remaining orc, who could not stop a forceful cringe when those harsh blue eyes landed on him. “Go to the generals and have them call riders forth. They must be assembled at the gates in an hour. I will join them there.”

The orc scrambled backward and turned to run off down the hall, as fast and as far as he could get, but, before he made the turn around the corner, Melkor called for him to halt.

“No. Belay that order,” he said, thinking as he spoke. “I will go myself.”

_I will bring him back to me._


End file.
